


Eight Sentinel Drabbles

by Mab (Mab_Browne)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M, Other: See Story Notes, challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 10:09:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/797167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mab_Browne/pseuds/Mab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight drabbles (which for me equals one hundred words, no more, no less).  A variety of angst and fluff.</p>
<p>Original post to 852 Prospect November 2005.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eight Sentinel Drabbles

  
Pet Fly, yadda yadda, Paramount, etc etc.  
Except for the first two drabbles, these little snippets are unrelated to each other. Mainly written for Sentinel Thursday on Live Journal.  
  


* * *

**THE PLAN**

Blair doubtfully eyed the blue plastic baby's hairbrush lying on the nightstand and asked, "Are you having trouble with your senses again?" 

Jim looked up from doing up shirt buttons. "No. Why?" 

"I'm just wondering what the brush is for." 

"It's for you, Chief." 

Blair chuckled and tugged the thick tail of hair pulled back at his nape. "I don't think so, man." 

"Oh, it's not for that hair, babe." Was that _mischief_ in Jim Ellison's expression? "I thought that we might enjoy some grooming as foreplay. I'm getting a little tired of picking chest hair out of my teeth." 

* * *

**REBUTTAL**

Blair grinned. "It's just chest hair you're sick of getting in your teeth? 

Jim's expression held an innocent blandness that Blair found deeply suspicious. 

"That was what I had in mind, yeah." 

"No other hair? 

"There _is_ that line that runs down your stomach. And that funny patch on your back just above your ass. And did you know that you have hair on your toes, Sandburg? " 

Blair laughed outright. "Jeez, Ellison! Anyone ever tell you that you lie like a rug?" 

"Obfuscation, Chief. Besides," Jim's hand ran teasingly down Blair's torso, "the only rug around here is you." 

* * *

**BELIEVER**

"You know, Chief, it's not like I brought home an electric blue posing pouch." 

"I'll look like a dork," Blair protested. 

"Wrong. You look like a dork when you wear those ratty shorts." 

Blair drew himself up. "They cover me. And they were cheap." 

"I got this on sale. It'll cover you." 

Blair threw up his hands in a last defence. 

"You're the body, man, not me. I still can't believe you think that I'd wear that suit..." 

But when it came to Blair, and Blair's ass, in an unexceptionable, blue bikini-styled swimsuit, you bet that Jim was a believer. 

* * *

**TARGET ACQUIRED**

You knew he was perfect. Personable, passionate, intelligent, maybe even brilliant. Look at the way he'd put the clues together. You could be proud of associating with someone like him. You'd looked around the office and it made you burn to see that he just wasn't appreciated. But you appreciated him, and it was important you let him know that. It felt good to be a friend to him. After all, you're nothing without friends. Yes, Blair Sandburg is a fascinating person. Somebody that you'd like to be with. You hug yourself in anticipation. Somebody that you'd like to be. 

* * *

**WAITING**

I wonder how people expressed some things before the concept of literacy. `It's written all over his face'. `I can read him like a book'. `It's all Greek to me', (and there's a tangent there that I wish I had half a chance of exploring). He`s leaning over me now, right in my space, showing off the book of traditional Pacific tattoos ("so unutterably cool, pity that people exploit these things without understanding them"). I'm tattooed all over with his warmth, his scent, his breath and he hasn't got a clue. Hey, Chief, want a new footnote for the diss? 

* * *

**NOT SO COSMIC**

I can be an ungrateful son of a bitch. Never more so than when I'm in this bar, eyeing some long-legged brunette. She wants me - she's going to get me, if only for a few hours. 

He's at home with his nose buried in a book on police procedure, secure in this destined cosmic thing he thinks we have. Well, hooray for destiny and the cosmos, but I'm getting tired of marching in karma's army. Drownings, spirit merges, sacrificial press conferences. They're complicated, the way guilt is. 

The brunette isn't complicated or destined or cosmic. She's just a guilty pleasure. 

* * *

**TWO MEN AND A TRUCK**

Blair rubbed his hand along the door. "We need to celebrate." 

"Sandburg, it's a truck." 

"Which you've just spent a fortune repairing because the damage was more than the replacement value. Clearly you love it nearly as much as you love me, so we ought to celebrate Sweetheart's return to health." Blair turned on all his powers of persuasion. "Come on, Jim. You, me, the truck, watching the sunrise from the bluffs. Symbolic." 

"Will there be coffee?" 

"If you make it." 

Jim sighed. Repair the truck, make coffee, make out with Sandburg. Sometimes life was high maintenance - but worth it. 

* * *

**WAY PAST TWENTY-ONE**

Back when they met, Jim noticed early on that whatever Blair did he did with complete focus. Right now, Blair chopped vegetables and jiggled to some internal rhythm. Periodically he sang `who do you love?' in his best hoochie coochie man tones, low and rich. 

Jim came up behind Blair and stood against him, resting his hands on the counter either side. The movement of the knife stilled. Jim nuzzled Blair's ear and murmured, "Hey there, mannish boy. Who _do_ you love?" 

Blair leaned his head back against Jim's shoulder. "You, of course." 

Yeah. No blues around here. Sing it. 

* * *


End file.
